


The Mathematics of Loyalty

by balthesar



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-19
Updated: 2006-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 08:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balthesar/pseuds/balthesar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <a>Alias Dearly Departed ficathon</a>.  <a href="thepodsquad.livejournal.com/profile">thepodsquad</a> asked for Sark seeing Lauren again, Lauren's memories of her death, and Lauren not being just evil and slutty.</p><p>Lauren had learned the most important lessons from her mother over the years. Never wear white shoes after Labor Day. Discussing money in public is gauche. Sometimes the ends justify the means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mathematics of Loyalty

> _Just how deep do you believe?  
>  Will you bite the hand that feeds?  
> Will you chew until it bleeds?  
> Can you get up off your knees?  
> Are you brave enough to see?  
> Do you want to change it?_  
> \-- Nine Inch Nails: "The Hand That Feeds"

Olivia Reed had been an attentive and caring mother. As a young girl, Lauren had been enraptured by her mother's elegance and good taste; secretly she would sneak into the master suite and rummage through the closets, trying on her mother's favorite black pumps and smearing a little red lipstick over her lips. Olivia had caught her daughter with strings of champagne pearls around her neck. She had winked and said, "Remember, darling, never marry a man who can't afford pearls for you." Lauren had grinned.

Lauren had learned the most important lessons from her mother over the years. Never wear white shoes after Labor Day. Discussing money in public is gauche. Acid-washed jeans never look good. A vacation house in the Hamptons was still chic, but only the Kennedys could get away with summering in Kennebunkport. Huge diamond engagement rings look like overcompensation. Ladies only drink scotch in private. Sometimes it is necessary to commit a lesser evil to fight a greater evil. Sometimes the ends justify the means.

On a Wednesday afternoon, in the August before Lauren's fourteenth birthday, Olivia was frantic. George was still in Washington, wrapping up business, so Lauren was alone on the porch of their summer cabin, curled up in one of the weathered Adirondack chairs with a battered copy of Forever. Olivia had screeched into the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires of her sedan. "Lauren, inside, now," she'd barked, and the hard lines set into her mother's face had made Lauren scramble for the screen door.

"Darling, I am trusting you with my life, your life and the life of your father." Lauren had nodded, terrified and wide-eyed at the strained, hushed tones of her mother's voice. "You can't say anything about this to anyone, ever," Olivia explained, locking the front door and checking the windows. "Not even your father." Lauren's eyebrows had stretched up her forehead.

Olivia leaned against the wall, looking out through a paned glass window towards the gravel road that led to the street. She sighed softly. "Sometimes, darling, you can't trust the government." Lauren frowned in confusion and Olivia shook her head dismissively, reaching out for her daughter. Tucked against her mother's side, Lauren felt the outline of a gun, tucked in the back of her mother's slacks.

"Remember how I told you that sometimes you have to do a bad thing to get rid of a worse thing?" Olivia glanced down at her daughter. Lauren nodded. "That's what I'm doing, darling." She flashed a wan smile. "I'm helping to get rid of a very bad organization, but it's dangerous. Very dangerous." Lauren held her mother tighter. "The enemy has people who work for them even in the government -- and not just ours."

A horrified look spread across Lauren's face. "Dad?"

Olivia smoothed down her daughter's dark blonde hair. "No. Not your father, thank God. But people he knows. People he works with. And he doesn't know that I'm fighting against them, especially because the organization I'm with is illegal too. You see why I have to be so careful?" Lauren nodded again. "So, darling, if some day I leave and don't come back, that's why--"

"Mom!" Lauren protested, clutching tightly around Olivia's waist.

She glanced down with an edge of sternness. "Darling, you can't tell anyone. Ever. Promise me."

Lauren grudgingly, worriedly replied, "I promise."

"Good." Olivia smiled a little again, her breathing more even. "Now remember: if anyone ever tells you they're with Prophet Five, they're with the enemy."

"Right," Lauren said with a frown.

***

Fifteen years later, some things had changed but more had stayed the same. Olivia had baked chocolate cakes for each of Lauren's birthdays and had never again spoken of the August afternoon or the prophets in the government. Lauren had never forgotten what her mother had explained or the fear on her face.

Lauren had moved to Harvard to study law, then to the Farm in Virginia to train in intelligence, then to Los Angeles with her new husband. She had met Michael Vaughn at an embassy function in Brussels, and married him soon after out of affection and his Prophet Five ties.

Lesser evils were necessary to combat greater evils: Lauren kept this always at the fore of her mind. Marriage without passion was a lesser evil. Periodically using the NSC for her own ends was a lesser evil. The Covenant was a lesser evil. Only once had her resolve faltered.

It was necessary. The gun had been heavy in her gloved hand, itching with potential energy. Her father had always been an honest man, even by non-politician standards. Her heart ached at the disappointment in his eyes after he'd learned only a fraction of her true allegiance.

"If it is any consolation, I believe the cause I am working for is just," she had explained tersely, though the truth tasted bitter in her mouth. Her hands had been trembling. It was too late to back out now.

In the end, Olivia had shot him. "It was necessary," she had explained through clenched teeth.

***

The first call Julian Sark had made, after escaping the CIA's grasp and then Anna Espinosa's forced partnership, was to Olivia Reed.

Thirty-two hours later, Sark was striding down the seafoam-green hall of the Cardarelli Hospital in Naples. A pretty Napoli nurse had directed him to the long-term care unit. It twisted his stomach for a moment: long-term care was for hopeless cases. But Olivia had fervently insisted that he meet her there, and he owed her a favor or two.

He knocked on the door of the suite, number 47C, and Olivia answered it promptly with a pleasant, "Bon giorno." Entering the room, Sark opened his mouth to greet Olivia but the words stilled on his tongue.

Lauren was sitting up in the adjustable bed, clad in a thin flowered hospital gown. Her light hair was tucked behind her ears and she was carefully sipping from a cup of orange juice.

"You're supposed to be dead," Sark observed with a frown.

Lauren shrugged a little. "So I've heard."

"Lauren's been in a coma for several months," Olivia interjected, her hand on her daughter's shoulder. She squeezed gently.

A concerned look crossed Sark's face before dryly remarking, "I've been in a maximum-security prison." Perhaps a coma would've been more comfortable.

"My sympathies." Lauren quietly scrutinized him. "Though I'm sure you deserved it."

Sark's lips quirked into a brief smile. "Admittedly."

"Darling, I'm going to go get a cup of espresso." Olivia slipped out.

Sark took a seat in the visitor's chair. It was upholstered in the same hideous faux-brocade big-print flowers that every hospital seemed to choose. He leaned forward on his elbows. "I saw your body."

Lauren smirked.

"Your corpse, I mean." His lips flattened into a line. "Vaughn took me to see it. I imagine he thought it would speed up the interrogation."

"Don't talk about him," Lauren replied, her words clipped. Sark half-nodded, half-shrugged. "They tell me I was actually dead for nearly two minutes." His stomach twisted again. "He shot me."

"So I've heard."

"Bastard."

After several long moments, Sark finally said, "Welcome back to the land of the living." His fingers trailed over her cheek, followed by his lips.


End file.
